The Wind in the Wheat
by Presentiment
Summary: Centuries have passed and Holo the wise-wolf has grown tired of keeping her promise. She longs now to return to the cold purity of her Northern home.


_Just something a little different I decided to write kind of randomly. My first published story on the site, so any thoughts/criticisms would be much appreciated! Thanks for reading! _

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><p>The wind stirs the wheat as it has always done. Ripe, golden ears of corn stir beneath the sun's soft light, the dewdrops caught upon them sparkling like tiny diamonds. The breeze whispers softly, secrets no human ear can hear, as it passes gently over this small field on the far outskirts of the village of Pasloe.<p>

It is a sight the wolf has seen many times before in her long, long life. Once she would have felt pride, gazing upon her work. For it is only thanks to her careful ministrations that the farms of Pasloe yield so magnificent a crop. Once she would have felt delight. Delight in the beauty spread out before her ageless eyes, the simple, natural loveliness of it. But now she feels nothing.

She is restless, truth be told. It has been centuries since she made that promise, to ensure Pasloe's harvests remain abundant by all the skill she can muster. But it is not so much the monotony of her life that has worn on her. Perhaps she could have endured centuries yet, cut off from the cold purity of her northern home, had the villagers just remembered what she had sacrificed for them. But instead, they offer only indifference. Worse, they curse her name whenever the harvest is poor, forgetting that she will not wring this land dry simply for their convenience.

Their caprice hurts her, maybe more than it should. Is she not a proud wolf, above the scurrying and chattering of these short-lived creatures? But more and more she finds herself wishing for the days when her name was spoken only with awe and gratitude by those in Pasloe. Perhaps it is simply loneliness that leads her heart astray, the years of solitude finally taking their toll.

All she knows is that she must leave, and soon. The North calls to her, on every icy winter wind sweeping down from the frozen mountain peaks, bearing with it the scent of pine needles. How she longs to answer it, to hunt once more with her brethren through those dark, ageless trees, the ripe smell of terrified reindeer in her upturned snout. She is still a creature of the wild, no matter how long she has spent in these soft lands of warm summers. A wolf cannot be tamed, cannot be broken, and she is the oldest and wisest of all wolves.

But for the fact that she is still bound to the wheat and it to her, she would have abandoned this place long ago. Her promise keeps her trapped here and she has begun to resent the shackles it has placed upon her. But straining against her fate is pointless, she cannot break these bonds simply by strength alone. It is only good fortune that can help her now. For though her soul will reside within the last wheat to be cut of the Harvest, should, by some miracle of fate, a larger sheaf be nearby, she may escape into it. That is her only hope, such as it is. But the wise-wolf is patient. What are a few more years waiting for that lucky coincidence when set against all the long centuries of her life? And so she waits, as the wind stirs the wheat, she waits.

Her salvation however, comes sooner than she could ever have hoped. Tied as she is to the lands surrounding Pasloe, she is aware of the merchant's approach long before he actually comes into view. At first, she is not stirred from her thoughts. Though traders are a rare sight in this remote farming community, she has seen many come and go over her centuries here. But as he draws closer, she finds herself drawn to take notice of this one, compelled by instincts she knows to trust. Why in particular puzzles her at first. He seems much like any other travelling pedlar to her world-weary gaze; a young, albeit rather handsome, man riding a ramshackle old wagon down the dusty path to Pasloe. Still, she has to admit he looks a little better-kept than the average ruffian. Indeed, she finds his hair, a rather fetching silver shade, and the stubble across his chin especially rather fine. For a moment she playfully toys with the idea of a midnight visit in her human form. After all, isn't today of all days the time that Holo the wise-wolf is supposed to prowl the fields of Pasloe? Not to mention that such a story would make a fine addition to the tales the villagers tell of her. Her gleeful cackle at the thought is heard only by the crows perched nearby.

But then she catches a familiar scent upon the air, emanating tantalisingly from the cloth-covered cargo at the pack of the man's wagon. The smell of freshly-harvested wheat…and a reasonably large amount by her reckoning. Larger anyway, than the last sheaf in which she will reside by the end of this harvest. For a moment she simply stands stock-still, almost unable to believe her luck. This…can be her escape from Pasloe. Provided that the handsome young merchant stays here long enough, her spirit can slip from the wheat growing tall in this field and into that which he carries. She can be borne away from here in the back of his wagon, without even having to use her own feet. Surely there can be no finer way to finally leave this village behind?

As her would-be rescuer draws nearer, she watches him intently from her lonely place at the heart of Pasloe's fields, trying to get a measure of the man. His gaze is keen and sharp, missing nothing as he scans the road ahead, yet there is a warm look to his deep, blue eyes that tells her he isn't the type to cruelly cast her out should he discover her hiding in the back of his wagon. Nor, she decides, is he the type of disgusting male who might try and take advantage of the young girl her human form appears to be. Not that any mere human could pose a challenge to her, but she'd rather avoid that kind of unpleasantness. He's old enough not to act the foolish pup, but still young and naïve enough that there should still be some fun to be had with him. Who knows, perhaps he might even make a worthy travelling companion for her on her journey back to the North. There isn't a doubt in her mind that she can persuade him to let her travel along. Young males are easily led after all, give it a week and she'll have him eating out of her hand.

She glances aside slowly as another soft breath of wind sweeps past her, carrying with it the scent of Pasloe, the smoke of cooking fires, the tantalising hints of roasting meat and fruit freshly picked. Even now, with escape finally within her grasp, it is not easy for her to deny her connection to this place. She has spent centuries watching over Pasloe, seen these trees grow from seedlings until they tower over her, watched entire generations of the villagers live, love and die before her ageless gaze. For all her unhappiness over the past decades, the thought of leaving so suddenly still brings a sharp, keening ache to her heart. But this is the way it must be. In truth she has left Pasloe behind in her heart years ago. She belongs in the North. It is time for Holo, the wise-wolf, to return home…

The wind stirs the wheat as it has always done. Row upon row of ripe, golden ears of corn shudder beneath a soft breeze, bowed over as though in supplication to some greater power. But Pasloe's god is gone…the fields are empty now. Holo, the ancient wise-wolf of legend, has left this place behind, never to return.


End file.
